I recently had one of the most poignant and humbling experiences of my life. Along with New York cartoonist Justin Bilicki and Navy Times cartoonist Jeff Bacon, I visited with and drew cartoons for wounded troops at Walter Reed Army Medical Center.
After Justin extended me the invitation, my first feeling was fear. Fear over what I would see. Fear over what the troops would see in me. Would they regard me as an opportunistic journalist far removed from the world’s grim realities, with which they are now so tragically acquainted? Would I be able to do anything for them beyond what the doctors and family were already doing?
We visited six soldiers. Four were amputees. Each one had been injured by IEDs in Iraq. All were young and from working-class backgrounds. Some of them were married; some had children.
One of the soldiers, a fresh-faced kid from Maine, got married shortly after arriving at Walter Reed in July and had a baby on the way. He was confined to his bed and attached to an IV drip, but in surprisingly good spirits when we met him. Reaching into a bedside drawer, he took something out and proceeded to tell us what happened to him. An EFP, or explosively formed penetrator, got him while he manned the gun turret ofan armored personnel carrier on patrol. When the souped-up IED went off, a molten, hot slug of copper punched through four inches of armor and lodged in his pelvic area. It stayed in his body, burning him from the inside out.
He passed us the object he retrieved from the bedside table: a fist-sized ball of violently twisted copper with pieces of his uniform still embedded in it. The kid from Maine may be able to walk again after a lot of physical therapy. However, he will require catheters, a colostomy bag and meticulous attention to his health and diet for the rest of his life.
Before our arrival at the hospital, the woman from the USO told us the soldiers are encouraged to talk about their injuries. Nearly every one of them was brutally frank about what had happened to them, and what was in store for their future. Their collective mood could best be called “realistic.” They resigned themselves to what fate gave them, but seemed determined to return to normalcy.
Sitting at their bedsides, seeing the scars and prosthetics, I still wanted to make them feel like they could have been talking to us over a cold one and plate of hot wings. We discussed their injuries, but also traded stories about Star Wars, ice hockey and the best brands of root beer. While the soldiers talked, I drew them caricatures of President Bush. None of them brought up politics or told us their feelings about the war, and I was relieved when my sketches only provoked smiles, not scowls.
On the drive home from Walter Reed, I kept thinking about what it would be like to be in their shoes. Imagine being in your early twenties, with all your plans laid out ahead of you — and decades of life over which to accomplish those goals. Then, an IED blows off your leg in Iraq. Afterward, it must feel like you’re living a different life in a different world. The amazing thing about these troops is that they still have thecourage and optimism to soldier on, so to speak.
Regardless of one’s feelings about the war and the politics behind it, Americans need to support our men and women in uniform. They are fighting and making heartbreaking sacrifices for us, even if some of us don’t like the fight. They deserve our sincerest gratitude.
Like the wounds of war, memories of the faces and stories from my visit will last a lifetime. To the troops in Walter Reed, to the men and women overseas, this humbled cartoonist says thank you.
